Flight of Fancy
by KissTheBoy7
Summary: Freddie has a thing for doughnuts and Anatoly has a thing for Freddie. HARD M. Established Anatoly/Freddie Kings relationship. Oneshot.


**A/N: I'm gonna go ahead and slap an NC-17 warning on this, and warn for food porn. Just in case. Don't like don't read, etc, you know the drill. (this is a tribute to the infamous Freddie Donut Porn on LJ, I'll add a link to that later.**

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Freddie thrives on obsession; Anatoly lives from one flight of fancy to another.

It doesn't seem like an ideal coupling, but it is. Freddie, he's got this thing about permanence - he doesn't forget, he doesn't forgive, he doesn't ever stop obsessing even when he's dizzy and dragging his feet, even when his eyes are bloodshot and his mind spinning, when he hasn't slept in a week and a half straight because he can't figure his way out of a checkmate and no one can convince him it's impossible.

Anatoly, he loves sex. He loves newness. He's passionate about passion, not about people, not about things, just the feeling. He loves that Freddie is mercurial, that he can't ever predict him. It keeps him interested.

Interested - in every respect of the word.

Freddie though, he doesn't just obsess over chess. He's got other things. Other quirks, big and small - except none of them are small, per se. Not with him. Nothing means nothing when you're Freddie Trumper.

Anatoly loves it. He loves trying to figure him out, puzzling and puzzling, he loves that he learns something new and sordid about him every day.

He loves it when he learns that Freddie jerks off to the sound of his piss hitting the porcelain, he loves it when he learns that sometimes he showers in his clothes, when the coffee hasn't kicked in yet, when he just fucking feels like it and it doesn't_need _an explanation, fuck off.

He loves watching him suck at his fingers, paw at his face, lick his lips and moan around a fresh doughnut, glaze smearing over his cheek.

He loves that he gets to be one of Freddie's obsessions. He loves to make it hard for him, to make him spend hours figuring him out. They both do that. They stare at one another, over the board, across the room. In bed, over the couch, over the table, up against the counter, in the movie theater in the dark -

He fucking loves the way that everything Freddie does is sexual, even chess - the way his fingers caress the pieces, his eyes so intent on the board, flickering down and up and sharp and piercing, the way his tongue flicks out to wet his lips. Anatoly could watch Freddie go about his life forever. He could get off to just about anything that he does.

Freddie doesn't halfass anything.

Freddie doesn't even halfass eating a fucking doughnut which is why Anatoly can't stop turning the image over in his head.

It's not his fault that he can't help equating Freddie's licking-sucking-whining-moaning to the way he sounds in bed, the way he looks when he's got his mouth stretched around Anatoly's cock, face scrunched up in concentration as he takes him down into his throat and _swallows_and sucks back up, sucks and slurps and licks around the head of him like it's so good when in reality all he can probably taste is salt.

It's a crying shame that he can't get something out of it, too, because he looks so goddamn delicious down there on his knees.

So Anatoly finds his newest flight of fancy - call it a kink, call it whatever you want. He's got a craving for something unusual, which isn't unusual in itself.

Freddie is just happy that he's being fed. He's got this thing, he's got this little sugar addiction he thinks nobody knows about.

Anatoly brings home a box of doughnuts and makes sure they're sticky warm before he tells Freddie to come find him in the bedroom, and when he does he's already got one out of the box, grinning at him like he's just had the best idea.

"Stand over there - " he instructs, and bites his lip as he directs him to stand beside the bed, beside the wall. He gets down on his knees and crawls over, and Freddie is staring at the doughnut in his hand, his brows furrowed, pushing down on the erection he can't ever seem to get rid of when Anatoly is in the room, or sometimes a chessboard, or both, he can't ever really separate them anymore.

"What the fuck are you doing with that?" he asks, already a little breathless, already fumbling with his zipper and pushing his jeans down his thighs and grabbing wildly for anything to hold onto as Anatoly pushes the pastry down the length of his shaft.

They probably aren't ever going to talk about this, but they don't talk about most things. Freddie thinks snidely to himself that they don't need to - they're fucking men, they'll suck it up, they'll communicate in bruises and in blood and sweat and come and in chess, of course, because at the end of the day its always chess.

He tips his head back against the wall and tangles a hand into Anatoly's hair and breathes. He breathes. In, out, in, out, _fuck, _his mouth is lukewarm in comparison but it's so _fucking hot _around the base of his cock, sticky, dripping, and Anatoly laps around it and he whimpers like Freddie does when he eats and it's not fucking _fair_, who could possibly call this fair?

He yanks him down and groans, unabashed, enamored with the tight suck of his wet mouth and the broad strokes of his tongue, and the scrape of his teeth as he eats around him, the soft sound of his swallowing, the rapid panting breaths that issue between.

He desperately wants to taste his mouth but he never, never wants to fucking stop, never wants to stop watching him lick warm glaze up to the head of his cock and suck it off with a relish that should be illegal.

Anatoly fucking loves the way he looks at him, with his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, his lips parted in utter enthrallment.

And then, "_Fuck-_" and a choked noise, an aggressive, possessive grunt, and he tastes sugar and salt and his throat closes around the last of them, and when he pulls off there's still glaze dribbling from the corners of his mouth, so Freddie yanks him to his feet and they collapse onto the bed, kissing frantically, tongues thrusting-sucking-licking, and he's still hard and Anatoly has never been so fucking hard in his life and won't be again until next week when he finds another thing to want so badly he could cream his jeans just thinking about it.

Freddie kisses away every last trace and more, and pushes him into the mattress and drives into him until neither of them can breathe through the sex in the air, the heat, the thickness of it, and Anatoly arches up and gasps for it, groans for it, pulling at him desperately asking for deeper-faster-harder-_deeper_.

Freddie's hands are so tight around him, his nails so deep in his skin, that they might have melted together in a puddle of glaze and neither of them would have noticed.

He fucks his mouth with his tongue, brings their hips forcefully together. Everything tastes like sugar and butter and Krispy Kreme doughnuts, his favorite fucking _kind _of doughnuts, and Anatoly is his favorite kind of whore and he can't- he can't -

"Fuck," he gasps, and tightens his hands, and drives the headboard into the wall, slipping. "Fuck -"

Anatoly is his favorite obsession, all of them, all at once.

He realizes dimly that he's lost the match. He doesn't fucking care. He'd gladly throw his king out the window, grind it to sawdust beneath his foot, for a chance to do this again.

Anatoly grins against his skin, kisses beneath his ear. They're sweating, panting, coming down.

Everything tastes like fucking sugar. He doesn't even really like sugar.

But Freddie does.


End file.
